You ever have one of those moments when you’re standing somewhere, at some incidental moment in time in a typical day between what you think is supposed to be significant and important, and you suddenly realize, holy shit, this is it, this is my life?
She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and a green corduroy hat and she was slowly sifting through the N’s in the Pop CD section.
And she was beautiful.
It was funny, sort of. She had this adorable look on her face, puzzled, like she was wondering why she was there in the first place, so diligently sifting through a form of music that just several years ago was the opposite of archaic. Or maybe she was just taking her time.
I pretended to look through my own stacks, making my way from the Indie C’s while subtly averting my eyes sideways in one of those moves that makes it easy to shift one’s gaze beyond your intended target if she tries to catch yours. It’s taken years of practice. I still haven’t perfected the technique. I probably never will.
We met up at the P’s.
She moved her way through leisurely, oblivious of me gaining on her and her slow, methodical fingers, dancing through the selection. They paused mid-Coppélia, stopping on a Phoenix record, and picked it up.
Suddenly, like out of some lame movie, the song “Too Young” came on the shop’s radio. I laughed.
Off guard, she turned towards me, but with just her head. A tiny corner of her perfume wafted over my face and for two seconds the entire world smelled perfect.
“What’s funny?” she asked in a French accent.
She was French.
“You’re French?”
She smiled a French smile.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just this song. It’s on the album your holding.” I pointed a finger up at the loudspeaker above us then down at her hands.
“Ohh, I didn’t know that. I just liked this record’s cover. This woman’s arms. They are so pretty.”
I turned and looked into her olive eyes and at her thin dirty blonde hair underneath that cap, and for the 57th time in my life, I was in love. The feeling of wanting to take someone and make them mine and make them happy until they’re dead washed over me in that familiarly pleasant and intimidating wave.
“I’m Jake,” I said, holding out my hand and smiling my safe, I-love-you-and-will-not-hurt-you-unless-you-want-me-to-in-a-sexual-way smile.
“Naomi,” Naomi replied, extending her own fair-skinned one. As her upper arm left the solace of her right side, a scent not altogether different from that of a pizza parlor emanated its way to my nose. The sublime perfume she had on melted away and was subsequently gang-tackled by millions of bacteria making their triumphant escape from her beautiful—yet olfactory nightmarish—armpit of unshaven, un-deodorized hair.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, falling in and out of love for the 56th time in my life, taking my fading smile with it.
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